On Morning Routine

-
Fade to light,
slight chatter in the eaves
of a thought not quite formed
but definitely forming.
The focus, still blurred,
soon starts to shout
sharp details aimed at lacerating
the muddled-ness of early morning.
Little mutters of "What of it?"
and "Don't bother" coalesce
into a final "I got it, I'm going";
the pitter-patter steps inside
turn to the clip-clap of a fine
leather, crisp Berluti march.
The warm sun crawls
and places a hand
on the shoulders,
the air nipping at the cheeks,
barely keeping the eyes open to see.
By now the thought seems to stick
out like a sore thumb intent on being seen
and heard and battered about -
a surrealist pony-figure breaking at the seams
in a splash of genius on one fine morning.
~~~~~~~~~~

Had a friend give me one word to use for a poem. The word was "stick". Hahaha, this was a perfect creativity experiment. Thanks for the help!

Cheers!

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